


Companions React to f!Sole Survivor Having Their Child, then Dying, Leaving Them to Raise the Child Themselves

by tea_petty



Series: Collection of Companions' Reactions [21]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Childbirth, Death, F/M, Pregnancy, widower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 23:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_petty/pseuds/tea_petty
Summary: Happily every after's aren't a guarantee.  When the worst happens, the Commonwealth men find themselves needing to step up when it most matters.





	Companions React to f!Sole Survivor Having Their Child, then Dying, Leaving Them to Raise the Child Themselves

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr; tea-petty

**Danse** : The harsh light in the hallway flickered haphazardly, casting light out generously one moment, before snatching it away the next.  It had been doing this for the past couple of hours, long after Sole had been admitted, and the miniscule flutterings of excitement had died in his chest.  Even through the biting pain of Sole’s nails digging into the flesh of his hand, Danse had gazed earnestly on the mother of his child, memorizing each bead of sweat as they glided across her clammy skin, the violent way her face contorted in pain; he’d memorize this so he could tell her later – how brave she was, how appreciative he was of her sacrifice for this wonderful gift she was giving him. **  
**

It was when Sole had let out a terrible shriek, that Cade had been alerted something was terribly wrong.   Danse watched, his hands sandwiching Sole’s comfortingly, as Cade peeked under the blanket that was draped over Sole’s knees.  The way the stirrups lifted her by the ankles created a good field of vision beneath the safety of the blanket, allowing Cade to assess the damage - whatever it may be - as objectively as one could at this stage.  Danse studied Cade’s face, knowing well that he’d never be able to find anything in it; this was not his first rodeo.  Danse had watched Cade be a part of the worst day of someone’s life, and deliver such devastating news without missing a beat.  He was very good at what he did.  Danse had to remind himself of this.

“Knight-Captain?” Danse prompted, forcing himself to keep his voice calm.

This was not his first crises, but this was a first for him and Sole in a variety of ways.  He had started as her squadron leader.  It had been his duty to help her through a crisis then.  Now he was her husband, it was his duty to protect her from it now.

Cade’s hands retreated from the blanket, turning to a tray of metal tools from a shelf a few feet away.  His fingers flew, as he stacked the tray neatly, before adding a few more thick towels, and something else that glinted in the dim infirmary light; something that resembled metal tongs?  Cade turned to Danse, his face impassable.

“There’s more bleeding than I’d like to see.  My best guess is that something tore under the strain her body’s under.”

Cade’s voice was as level as if he were dictating notes.

“Your best guess?” Danse demanded, as Sole whimpered beside him.

“I won’t know more until I go in, I’ll need to repair the damage and stop the bleeding as I deliver.”

Two Scribes entered the room as Cade spoke, position themselves at either side of the metal bed Sole was writhing on.

“And after this, she’ll be alright?”

Danse’s eyebrows drew together.  He counted each second of Cade’s silence.  1, 2, 3, 4…

“I’ll do everything within my power,” Cade promised ominously, before nodding to the Scribes.

Danse froze, his hands still clutching at Sole’s.

“Paladin, it’s imperative that we go in to address the issue now.” Cade’s voice rose the barest decibel in urgency.  Danse felt panic seize his chest.

“I…” he choked out, looking back down at Sole.

She had gone slack, her head lolling flimsily against the pillow, her grip weak; she had lost a lot of blood by now.  Still though, her eyes were open, watching Danse, her face a phantom of the agony from earlier, despite her worsening condition.  Dread began to creep up in Danse.

“S’okay Danse, let them help me.” Sole’s voice was thin.

“I know, I just—“ Danse’s breath caught in his throat “ — I can’t…”

“Ssh.” Sole raised a feeble hand towards his face, as Danse swooped in.

Sole pressed her warm palm against his cheek.

“This is scary. But…we’re going to be parents.” Sole’s voice cracked. “This is…a good thing.”

Danse nodded, giving Sole a watery smile before sniffling.

“You’re right.” He gently removed her hand from his cheek, before placing a gently kiss at her knuckles.

“I’m sorry, but we really do have to go,” Cade urged from behind them.

Danse moved in to press a kiss against Sole’s forehead.

“I love you,” Danse said hoarsely.

“Tell me again when I’m holding our child.” Sole gave him a faint smile. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Danse threaded his fingers loosely through Sole’s as she nodded to Cade, resolute even as her head swam, and bright spots dotted her vision.

“Let’s do this, Knight-Captain.”

Cade nodded, as the Scribes wheeled her out, and she slid right through Danse’s fingers.

Danse sat now on a dingy, metal folding chair outside of the Prydwen’s only operating room.  It was tucked in the back of the ship, safely away from any heavy machinery that could spark or be considered a risk to the oxygen lines that ran to it.  Danse had forgotten such a room existed on the Prydwen until today; it was seldom used.  Most cases that required surgery were dead before they reached the table.

Danse hunched forward forlornly, his shoulders bowing deeply, so that his forehead could rest against his folded hands, which sat atop his lap.  Haylen stood a few feet away, fearfully quiet.  Close enough so that she wasn’t leaving him alone, but far enough to give the massive anguish Danse felt, room to coexist with him.  From where she was standing, it looked as if he were praying; but she knew that his eyes were open, his face frozen in a masque of horror.  His hands were not clasped reverently together but clutching desperately.  This was not a man who wanted to convene with God, this was one who made demands that ended with or else.

Haylen could’ve been watching Danse for minutes, or for hours.  Maybe even an eternity - or else, no time at all.  That was the thing about moments like this, ones that lead up to a singular instance that would change your life forever; all those smaller, insignificant moments before seemed to blend together into one.  No one remembers the hour before the bombs dropped, or five hours, and twenty-four minutes before the Roman empire fell.  There is simply a before, and an after.  When Danse saw Sole again, now with their child, this moment, this particularly long, despairing moment, would be just that; one moment, before the rest of his life started.

This is what Haylen was thinking when Cade emerged from the operating theater, his surgery gown discarded, and his medical mask hanging loosely from his ears.  Haylen perked up, as Danse rose to his feet, his hands parting hopefully; anxiously waiting to receive good news.

“The baby had a little trouble breathing immediately following the delivery, but we ventilated her for a little while, and she seems to be able to breathe on her own now.  She’s five pounds, eight ounces, and doing well.” Cade gave a small smile. “Congratulations Paladin, you’re now the father of a healthy, baby girl.”

Danse’s chest felt full, on the verge of bursting.  Giddiness welled in his throat, as a large breath left him.  His knees weakened, as he raised a hand to his chest, as if trying to confirm that he could still feel a heartbeat.  Haylen giggled before bouncing forward to clap Danse heartily across the back.

“Congrats!”

“And Sole?  Is the baby with her now?  Can I see them?” Danse looked eagerly to Cade.

Cade hesitated.

“Danse…”

The dread that had receded reared its ugly head once again, turning Danse’s blood to ice water.

“We had to deliver right away; if we repaired the damage prior to delivering, then we ran a strong risk of tearing again, which could’ve exasperated the delivery, posing a large risk to both mother and child.  In the delivery process though…Sole lost a lot of blood.  Such severe blood loss combined with the tremendous strain delivery puts on the body was…too much for her.”

Danse blinked at Cade, puzzled.  The hours Danse had been up waiting tersely caught up with him as he struggled to decipher the doctor’s tricky words.  Through the fog, he couldn’t hear the small gasp Haylen let out, as her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“I don’t…can you clarify what you mean?”

“Sole succumbed to her injuries, and despite our best efforts, she’s—” Cade swallowed, the small, unsure action not going unnoticed by Danse “— Sole is dead.”

Danse stared blankly at Cade, watching his mouth open, and hearing radio static come out.  He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to force his brain to keep up; something big and important has happened.  Something else, big and important was waiting; he needed his brain to process faster, to get on the same page.

His brain shied away from this big and important news.  He was tired.  He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and so subconsciously, he was sure that if he fully felt the impact of such earth-shattering news, he would slip through the cracks, and then who would take care of their daughter now that Sole was…

His brain retreated into safer memories.  His early Brotherhood days, when everything seemed so new and fresh and full of hope.  When looking back, he and Cutler were still essentially, infants themselves.  He had felt so dumb, trying to fit in with the other recruits.  Trying to keep up with all the heavy technical jargon; the Scribe’s had been vicious of his and Cutler’s use of ‘ain’t’, and crass language.  He had been so simple back then; hadn’t had t worry about anything but himself and Cutler, and then Cutler was gone, and it was just him.  And the baby of course.  He hadn’t the faintest idea about how to be a father; this worry popped up in his mind, fresh and demanding.  Although it wasn’t the first time it occurred to him, Sole had always reassured him otherwise.

“You’re a good man, who’ll make a fantastic father,” she had told him, as they lay in bed.

Both of their hands resting tenderly atop her swollen belly.

She had nuzzled into his jaw, before planting a sweet kiss.  Danse’s eyes fluttered shut at the memory of her warm, subtly sweet scent; a phantom of the real thing.  How had he worked with her for so many months, under such intoxicating conditions?  It took every fiber in his being not to hold her against him and kiss her every chance he got.  How did he ever live without such an occurrence in his life.  How would he live without this woman now?

The impact of Cade’s news hit Danse like a crash landing Vertibird.  He felt dizzy and light, before he dropped to the floor, like a stone, his grief cold and heavy, effectively pinning him.  This viciously sad man was not one Danse recognized.  It felt as if he had stepped out of his body, numb to the pain it was feeling, looking onwards as it fought for breath.  Haylen and Cade followed Danse down, coaxing him up, rubbing his back as if they could return the feeling that ebbed from his limbs, saying things that went in one ear and out the other.  He felt it was only safe to rejoin this grief wracked body when it finally blacked out.

-

“Dad! Dad!”

Danse turned at the sound of his daughter’s excited voice, right in time as she bounded through the entrance of their peaceful, Sanctuary home.

“What have you got there?” He raised his eyebrows, his gaze immediately scrutinizing the secretive position of Kristy’s arms behind her back.

“Okay, hear me out dad. I’ve found something that could possibly make our lives a bajillion times better!”

Danse put down the wrench he had been using prior to his daughter’s appearance, before leaning back against the dining room chair he sat in, and crossing his arms, a skeptical grin on his face.

“A whole ‘bajillion’, huh?  Alright, I’m listening.”

Kristy beamed, her honey brown eyes paying soft homage to his own, her exuberant excitement, doing so to her mother.  She slowly brought her arms to the front of her body, careful not to drop the furry load they carried,

“Tah-dah!” she exclaimed, “I found a puppy!”

“I see.”

“Good, we’re on the same page!”

Danse felt his chest squeeze.  That cheekiness was all Sole as well. “And that page is?”

“Us maybe, possibly keeping the puppy?” Kristy’s eyes were hopeful, as she batted her eyelashes at her father. “Pretty please?”

“Kristy…” He started.

“Wait, Dad, before you say anything, I know a pet is a huge responsibility.  But I’m twelve years old now, I’m basically an adult, so I think I’m ready for some responsibility,” Kristy argued seriously.

Danse had to stifle the laugh that threatened to escape him.

“You have a point there.  Twelve is certainly old enough to become more responsible.”

“Plus, you love puppies!”

He looked sharply at his daughter’s triumphant grin.

“I do, do I?”

“Yeah!  That picture of you and Mom, and the dog you used to have, proves it!”

Danse’s gaze softened, as the corner of his mouth curved upwards into a half-grin. “You have a point there.  Dogmeat was a good companion to your mother.  She took him everywhere.”

“So this puppy could be mine! Or ours, if you wanted,” Kristy offered.

Danse chuckled openly now. “That’s very generous of you.” He nodded at the puppy, before scooting out, and patting his lap. “Let me have a look at him.”

Kristy brought the puppy over, a bounce in her step, and dropped him onto her father’s lap.  Danse held out his hand to let the pup have a whiff of him, before its tiny pink tongue darted out, and lapped excitedly at him.  He raised a large palm to gently rub the dog’s head, mussing his fur, and earning an excitable yelp from the small animal.

“He likes you!” Kristy gushed.

Danse sighed resignedly. “He’s cute…”

“So can we keep him?  Please?” Kristy raised her hands to clasp pleadingly below her chin, batting her eyelashes once again.  “Please, please, please?”

“He’s your responsibility,” He said sternly, “that includes feeding him, walking him, and…picking up after him.”

“Yay!” Kristy squealed, before throwing her hands around Danse’s neck, and kissing him on the cheek, “Thank you Dad!”

He returned her hug, “Sure, sure.  Have you thought of a name for him yet?”

Kristy grinned. “How about Puppychow?”

He could almost hear Sole’s laugh at the back of his mind.  That’s a terrific name!

Danse smiled, tousling Kristy’s hair fondly.

“That’s a terrific name.”

 **Deacon** :  Deacon’s face was frozen in horror as he looked onto the despairing scene in front of him; like something straight out of Lewis’ The Monk and for once, the man who wielded his wit against the monstrosities of the Commonwealth was at a loss for words.  Sole lay on one of the dingy mattresses tucked in a somewhat-private corner of the Railroad headquarters, the dark crimson that blossomed out around her form dominating the grimy fabric.  Her ragdoll form seemingly not her own, Sole convulsed violently, her limbs tossing flimsily around her swollen abdomen.  Around the grisly display, members of the Railroad hovered, forming a perimeter; some staring shocked as they watched, and others appearing crouched at the ready, like a runner at their mark, awaiting any instructions Carrington may toss out into the crowd.  Deacon felt hands on him; squeezing at his shoulders and arms.  Some of them intending to rub soothingly as the man watched two futures flicker in and out of sight before his very eyes, while others appeared to restrain him, holding him so that he didn’t surge forward and disturb Sole further, as her life hang precariously by a fateful thread.

At the centre of this maddening arena, Carrington fought to keep Sole as still as he could, as each violent contort of her body seemed to empty another wave of blood out onto the mattress.  Deacon watched as Carrington pressed two blood-stained fingers at the juncture of Sole’s neck and jaw, poking upwards into the groove it formed.  Sole continued to writhe against Carrington’s still motion; the stark contrast looking bizarre to Deacon.  Uncontrollable, sharp movements, against methodical stillness.  Bright red on sterile white.  

“Dammit, her pulse is flying and she’s already lost so much blood,” Carrington muttered tersely.  

“Carrington.” Deacon heard his voice croak out

“If I don’t deliver soon, we’ll lose them both.”

The blood in Deacon’s ears roared, as he watched terrible realization dawn on the man.  His eyes were already fixed on Carrington’s when he turned to look at him, pity marring his usual pointed dryness.

“Deacon…I-I’m sorry, I…”

“Save them both.”

Deacon had thought he’d growled it, but it came out as a hoarse whisper.

“I’ll do everything in my power.” Carrington strained over the violent motions of Sole’s body. “But, Deacon…you should prepare yourself.”

Deacon was still frozen when Carrington pulled the curtain, effectively stranding him.    
  
It could’ve been in the wee hours of the morning, or another fierce drowning of the sun, as it dipped below the horizon, refusing to go down without spilling its glow across the sky in clashing, vibrant hues.  Deacon would never know; time held little meaning in these ruins.  He knew that most of the Railroad crowd had melted away as the hours trudged on, leaving him to grapple with the not-knowing, Desdemona faithfully at his side.

He had since been shepherded into the private inlet of another part of the Railroad headquarters; one flimsy curtain may have shielded his eyes from the violent battle taking place on Sole’s body, but it did nothing for the abominable sounds; the squelching of her blood, the tearing of flesh, and the animal-like shrieks as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

Deacon was not going to be the wife that cried and needed her hand held in the waiting room; he had nothing to cry about.  What he had done, was allow Desdemona to offer him a cigarette and a light, her arm occasionally brushing comforting against his as they sat through the night.  When Carrington finally revealed himself, Deacon and Desdemona instantly rose to their feet.  Carrington’s usually meticulously kept lab coat had red spattered and smeared across it in various places.  Deacon tried not to focus on what could’ve made such marks.  

“What happened?” Deacon demanded.

“She lost a lot of blood.  Her rapid pulse was an indicator of high blood pressure, which could’ve caused the convulsions, and…”

The lens of Deacon’s sunglasses glinted ominously as candlelight danced across it.

“And?”

“And…the coma.” Carrington sighed. “I was able to deliver, and your son came out healthy and strong. But… Oh, Deacon.”

Deacon’s face was rigidly calm, the strained trembling of his jaw the only indication of how tedious it was to remain that way.

“You have to say it.  Otherwise, I won’t get it.”

“Deacon, I don’t think Sole is going to wake up.”

“You don’t think?” Desdemona inquired from beside Deacon. “Did she make it or not, Carrington?”

Carrington hesitated, “That’s the thing.  This condition; she has no brain activity, and she can’t breathe on her own.  She’s ventilated; much like how G5-19 was.”

Deacon exhaled heavily, his eyebrows drawn together, troubled.  

He was silent; silent as he visited Sole’s body, and silent as he held his son for the first time.  He sat alone, in one of the better lit corners of the headquarters, gently rocking his son through the night.  Willing the fragile bundle in his arms to sleep soundly in a place void of darkness; there had plenty of that already today.

When Desdemona’s head finally touched her pillow, she wondered at Deacon; she had never seen him grieve before.  The only person who knew him as more than just ‘Deacon, Agent of the Railroad’ was gone now, and yet, she hadn’t seen him shed a single tear.  The image of Deacon lurking quietly in his sadness was the last thing that swam from her view as she lost consciousness.  When she awoke next, Deacon and the child were gone.  
-  
The damp floorboard creaked ominously from below, and despite their home being pretty well insulated compared to some of the others in Far Harbor, Njord could clearly hear the slapping of waves against the planks that held their residence up.  While the storm ravaged on outside, he settled cozily into the sofa in the main room.  The abundance of lights kept the brewing darkness outside at bay, while the décor he and his dad had chosen together, kept the room distinctively homey to them.  

Out of all the kids in Far Harbor, Njord had a reputation as being the kid with the cool dad.  While the others’ lived in homes with potted plants, and paintings of old men in lavish clothing on horses, Njord’s house had posterized covers of  _Astoundingly Awesome Tales_  and  _Grognak the Barbarian_.  While the other parents passed hours at the bar, Njord’s dad always came home on time to cook them dinner, and talk about the day.  Njord’s dad spoke to him as if he were an equal, and he always brought him back cool books to read.  Not to mention, he always wore a pair of cool sunglasses (and had gotten Njord a pair to match!)  The boy smiled faintly to himself as he recounted fond memories he shared with his dad; he really was the best - a fact Njord knew well, because some days, he even forgot he didn’t have a mom.

Now, he waited impatiently for his dad to come home; today had been a big day.  Njord had huge news to tell his dad.  And then they needed to drink a ton of Vim to recover, because the sheer hugeness of such news was impossible to endure otherwise.  An eternity of restless leg shaking later, the door finally opened, revealing a sopping wet Deacon.

“Dad!” Njord leapt to his feet and rushed forward.

Shrugging off his rain poncho hurriedly, Deacon opened his arms to accept the boy into a monstrous bear hug.

“Hey kiddo, what’s up?”

“I’ve been waiting for you!” Njord’s eyes were big and serious. “I have something to report back!”

Deacon removed his shades, hanging them along the neck of his shirt as he turned to his son.

“Something…good?”

“Yes! Well, sort of?  And then there’s the bad news…”

Deacon watched as a whole spectrum of emotions passed through Njord’s face; excitement dampening onto the specific brand of disappointment that came with puppy-love gone bad.  He disappeared into the kitchen briefly, before returning with a tin of potato crisps.  Njord bounced over to the couch, perching excitedly on one half, while Deacon let himself fall back on to the other, with an unwinding ‘oof’.

“Alright, tell me everything, don’t leave a single detail out.” Deacon matched Njord’s seriousness, extending the tin to him in offering.

The boy shoved his hand in, grabbing a small stack of chips.

“So, I took your advice, and I told Eldora I liked her today, during meal break.”

“How’d it go?” Deacon asked, popping a chip into his mouth.

“She said she liked me too! And I was really happy!” Njord’s cheeks pinkened slightly, before his light expression fell flat.

“But…then she told me that her family is moving to the mainland soon…”

Deacon looked thoughtful, as Njord crunched on a chip, waiting for his father to impart some of his boundless wisdom.

“Mainland, huh?”

“Yeah, so basically, it doesn’t matter that she likes me back, because I’ll never see her again!”

Deacon made a sympathetic face. “Don’t say that.  It was important that you told her to begin with. That takes a lot of courage that a lot of people don’t have.  Plus, who’s to say that she won’t come back?  Or that you one day, won’t go to the mainland yourself?”

Njord’s face scrunched up. “I thought you hated the mainland, Dad.”

Deacon chuckled. “It’s not my thing, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to go someday.”

Njord’s small brow furrowed, “And leave you behind?”

His voice grew high with hysteria.

“You don’t have to, and it wouldn’t be anytime soon,” Deacon reassured, “I’m just saying, you have options.  Life can change at the drop of a hat, so don’t think that things are set in stone, just because they seem that way now.”

“And if it feels like I’ll miss her forever?” Njord asked, more quietly now.

“That will get better too, kiddo.  Everything gets better with time, you’ll see.”

Silence hung between them, punctuated by the occasional crunching of chips.  In the dim lighting, and comforting companionship of his son, Deacon felt at peace enough to allow himself to think of Sole.  Would she be proud of how Njord was turning out?  Would she think Deacon cowardly for fleeing to far Harbor all those years ago?

Deacon smiled softly.  Was Sole somewhere with Barbara right now, watching over the two of them?  Maybe they were collaborating on a tell-all book about all his annoying habits.  Maybe they weren’t thinking about him at all.  Maybe they both moved on, and had their own families, wherever they were now.  Or maybe, there was no ‘after’, and Barbara and Sole had ended the moment their existence in this world had.  Deacon preferred to think of them as those tacky looking ‘angels’ pre-war humans used to memorialize.  Golden halos, and great fluffy wings; maybe at a Slocum’s Joe for angels, having coffee and donuts, and watching the land of the living for sport.  Saying things like, ‘Hey, that Deacon has great taste in women,’ and ‘My, isn’t Njord growing up to be so big and strong? I think he has your eyes.’

At the very least, he’d like to think they’d both agree, that things do get better with time.  The hurt inflicted by fate’s cruel hand long ago, pricked less viciously at Deacon than it used to, the pain dimmed by quaint evenings with Njord, and his monotonous, but reliable work as a middleman for synths trying to make their way to Acadia.  

“Hey dad?” Njord looked at Deacon, jerking him from his thoughts.

“Shoot.”

“You used to…live on the mainland too, right?”

“I did.”

“And…” Njord hesitated, “that’s where you met mom?”

Deacon cleared his throat. “It - yeah it is.”

“So…why’d you leave?” Njord asked, just as cautious as curious, knowing it was a sensitive subject, but not quite sure why.    

Deacon shrugged, and gave Njord an easy smile, “Everything gets better with time, but some things get better with a little distance too.” 

 **Hancock** :  Hancock gazed through the fogged window pane, feeling the phantom of the chill that lurked on the other side.  His eyes fell on the smattering of lights outside the Old State House; the Goodneighbor night was in full swing.  Hancock loved nights in his town; loved the juvenile recklessness that took hold, and the warmth of companionship as laughter bubbled around every corner.  Tonight though, he felt nothing as the lights danced before his eyes.  He looked down to the tiny bundle in his arms; a tiny face nestled in a mess of blankets.  The small eyes shut, as the barest hint of a snore sounded from two slightly parted, cherub lips.  Hancock raised a finger to stroke it gently down the smooth skin of his cheek; how could he have played a role in creating something so beautiful? His chest squeezed painfully; it was Sole.  She reminded him of that old story pre-war humans used to tell; the one about a King Midas, and how everything he touched turned to gold.

He turned around, and headed towards the bed they shared, to where Sole was laying.  Her breathing came in labored pants, her head lolling flimsily to either side as she stirred under the stifling haze of her fever.

“Oh, love,” Hancock cooed, curling protectively over her.

He shifted his son to his other arm, so that the one that was closest to Sole, could grab her hand comfortingly.

“John,” Sole called out weakly.

Hancock reached to place the baby in the crib set up next to the nightstand, before returning swiftly to Sole’s side, taking her hand in both of his.

“I’m here sunshine. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sole’s eyes fluttered, as her breathing caught roughly in her throat.  Hancock frowned, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek, caressing desperately.  As if he could shoo away death’s spindly grasp as it clung to her.

“That’s…good,” Sole rasped, “because…I can’t do…this next part…without you.”

Sole paused, catching her breath as dread welled in Hancock’s throat.

“Don’t say that,” he begged, “you might get better. Doctors are wrong all the time.”

“John.” The corners of Sole’s mouth curled feebly into a smile, her eyes as empty as the grave. “The doctor…isn’t wrong…this time.”

Sole feebly raised a hand to Hancock’s face, running her clammy fingers over the leathery grooves of his face.  Hancock’s face contorted in anguish as he caught her hand and held it to him, planting a kiss on Sole’s palm.

“Sunshine, I don’t…I don’t know if I can do this without you.  Please, you can’t go.”

“Don’t be sil…ly…” Sole rasped with a weak smile. “You’ve been…taking care…of people for years.”

Hancock’s eyes stung as he latched on to each word.  Could ghouls cry?  He’d never had the opportunity to find out before.

“I…” Hancock shook his head slightly, unable to articulate the vat emptiness that spanned him in this moment.

“You’re a good man John. You’ve…always had that goodness inside you.” Sole faltered for a moment, working tirelessly to catch her breath. “You just need to…trust it.”

Sole’s eyes shut, her grip on Hancock not faltering.  With the little privacy the small gesture offered him, Hancock bowed his head, his hunched shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead reverently into Sole’s hand.

God, Atom, Star Father – if anyone’s out there, don’t take her yet.

Hours passed, and the heavens, with their own set of dancing lights seemed to honor their silent covenant with the ghoul.  Then, in the budding morning hours, Hancock heard the sound of cold rain drops pelting the window pane of their quarters, like terse fingers drumming impatiently against the surface.  It was then that Sole’s hold on Hancock slackened for the final time.

-

Hancock sat back on the couch in his quarters, lounging comfortably, his hands at a restful position on his lap.  On the other side of the coffee table, Fahrenheit sat, a cigarette in hand.  Beside her, Cedric Hopton shifted in his seat; an afterthought of a man, who had a rabbity sort of jitter to him, without being cute.  Hancock’s mouth quirked into a half-smile as he studied this strange gathering; before, he would’ve had something in his hands – a canister of jet, a tin of mentats,  _something_.  He certainly wouldn’t have been caught at a business meeting empty handed, now, he had been in the after so long, he didn’t even feel ‘caught’ anymore, just empty handed.  His fingers twitched slightly as if to demonstrate said emptiness.  Hancock maneuvered them so that they lay over the back of the couch.

“So, Mayor Hancock, I’ve got a…”  Cedric broke off, his mouth closing suddenly as the faint drumming of swift footfalls sounded from behind the closed door.

Cedric looked troubled, as if debating whether or not to continue or not.  Neither Hancock nor Fahrenheit gave any indication of Cedric should do.  Meanwhile, the footsteps grew louder, and closer until suddenly, they paused right outside the door.  Hancock grinned, shifting to face the door as right on cue, a boy who looked to be around five years old burst in.

“Daddy!”

Hancock spread his arms right in time as the boy came crashing into him.

“Hubbell! Hey little man, what are you up to today?” Hancock lifted the boy easily, propping him on his knee.

“I want to go to work – like you!”

Cedric watched, wide-eyed as the ghoul humored Hubbell’s whims.  From his left, a barely perceptible smile from Fahrenheit had formed as she watched the scene, her cigarette since extinguished.

“Like me?  Well then you better dress the part,” Hancock teased, removing the tricorn hat from his own head before placing it on his son’s.

Hubbell giggled as the large hat dipped over his eyes.  Pudgy little fingers pushed the hat back so that his eyes were no longer covered, as they gazed curiously at Cedric.

“Daddy, who’s this?”

“That’s a man who has some business with us today, isn’t that right….?”

“Cedric, Cedric Hopton.”

“Right, Cedric.” Hancock nodded, his dismissive voice indicating that he probably didn’t commit such a trivial thing to memory.

“What business, daddy?”

Hancock chuckled. “Now, that’s a very good question Hubbell.”  The Mayor turned to Cedric, his expression more curt than playful now.  

Fahrenheit straightened up in her own seat.

“Well, that’s uh…I…” Cedric stammered, his gaze flicking to Hubbell every so often.

“Go on,” Fahrenheit encouraged, her voice as smooth as silk, and as cold as the blade on the combat knife she kept at her hip.

“So, I have a bit of…business that needs to be taken care of,” Cedric started, still sounding hesitant.  “Roger, more specifically.  I have it on good word that he’s a…well, a synth.”

Hancock was thoughtful, Fahrenheit was silent, and for the next few moments, Cedric squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

“By ‘take care of’ you mean…” Hancock drawled, raising what would’ve been an eyebrow.

“I…well, I…you know, it may be unsavory to say in the presence of…ah, children.” Cedric’s gaze flew to Hubbell again, who blinked earnestly back.

“Huh, you don’t say?  Well then— “ Hancock turned to his son “— what do you think, little man?”

“I think we should have mac n’ cheese for lunch!” Hubbell exclaimed excitedly.

Hancock nodded approvingly before turning back to Cedric. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think.  I think, that if this…’business’ here is of such an…unsavory nature, then I best not be involved.”

Cedric looked like he was about to protest, but Hancock cut him off.

“Surely, you understand, right?” Hancock’s dark gaze bore into the farmhand, as if to ensure he stayed quiet.

“I, oh, well, of course…” Cedric mumbled, unsatisfied, but too meek to contest the decision any further.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some very pressing matters to attend to, of the cheesy nature.  Surely, you understand.” Hancock nodded curtly to Cedric, before turning to Hubbell.

“Ready?”

“Yeah!” the boy cheered, leaping off Hancock’s lap, to his feet.

Hancock grinned, and rose to his own, before taking Hubbell’s hand, and letting the boy excitedly tow him from his quarters.

“Bye-bye Fahrenheit!” Hubbell waved enthusiastically as he passed her.

“See ya, kid.” Fahrenheit raised her fist in offering, her face still as impassive as ever.

Hubbell stretched his own fist up, knocking it gently against Fahrenheit’s as he left.  She turned to Cedric, who was lingering awkwardly by the couch, coat in hand.

“Now, tell me more about this ‘business’.”

 **MacCready** :  Sole let out a blood-curdling shriek, and MacCready winced, tugging Duncan sharply behind him.

“Don’t look buddy - close your eyes, alright?” MacCready murmured tersely.

Duncan, his eyes wide with unknowing fear, nodded earnestly, before obediently pinching his eyes shut, and clamping his palms over them; an extra measure to prove to his dad that he could be a big boy in scary situations.  MacCready looked over to Dr. Amari, who was frantically hovering over Sole, peering under the blanket that was draped over her knees.  Tubes and wires MacCready couldn’t discern for the life of him, protruded from Sole’s arm; shaking with the violent contorting of her body as pain jolted her like a live wire.  A crimson stain blossomed from beneath Sole, radiating outwards from Sole, creeping up the sterile white fabric of the bed sheets.

“What’s happening?” MacCready fought to keep his voice steady, not wanting to scare Duncan anymore than he already was.

“Something’s wrong,” Dr. Amari muttered, reaching under the blanket.

“What’s wrong?” MacCready demanded.

“I…look, this isn’t my specialty, but I’ve delivered babies before and…this isn’t right, there isn’t supposed to be this much blood,”  Amari said, her voice tense.  “Mother and child are in exceptional danger right now.”

A bead of sweat slid down Amari’s temple as she retracted her hand from under the blanket, the white of her surgical gloves smeared with Sole’s blood.  Standing upright, Amari turned to MacCready.

“It’s as I feared. The baby is breached – coming out feet first instead of head.  That paired with the excessive bleeding…”

MacCready’s chest seized in panic.

“…I fear that delivering the baby naturally could be fatal to both of them.  I could…surgically deliver the child but—”

“But what?”  MacCready pressed, his voice strained.

“But I fear your wife would not survive such a procedure.”

MacCready felt something inside him drop; perhaps the stone that was weighing coldly down in his stomach, as he despaired.

Not again.

“So, you’re saying, we lose Sole either way?” MacCready choked out.

“Regardless, I will do everything in my power to save your wife.” Amari pressed her mouth into a thin line, her voice resolute with the weight of her promise.

MacCready felt a weak pull at his hand, and when he looked down he found that it was Sole, her fingers weakly entangling with his.

“RJ,” Sole whimpered.

“Hey sweetheart,” MacCready soothed, his voice wobbly.

MacCready stooped down so that he could caress Sole’s face, pushing the damp strands of hair from her face.

“RJ please –  _please_  save the baby.  Don’t let our little girl die.”

MacCready kissed her nose as a stray tear dropped down to her cheek.

“Y-you don’t worry about that right now, okay?  You worry about getting better, because our little girl?  She’s going to be just fine” — MacCready’s voice cracked —“but she’s going to need her mama.  And Duncan will too.”

He sniffled again.  From beside him, he could hear another set of sniffling, echoing his own.  Duncan had since uncovered his eyes; now red and puffy from the tears he shed.  His pudgy fingers clung to the side of the gurney, bunching the sheets in his grip.

“M-Mama…” Duncan cried, his face crumpling.

Sole lit up, mustering all the strength she had to gain control of her voice as she used the hand that was not on MacCready to gather Duncan more closely.

“Hey Dunc, you’ve been such a brave boy!” Sole’s bright voice was damp with unshed tears of her own.  “I know this is scary, but your dad and I are so proud of you, and- “ Sole gritted her teeth, as another sharp pain ripped from her abdomen “- and your mother would be too.”

Duncan sniffled loudly. “Mommy already went away, why do you need to go too?”

Sole’s voice caught as she blinked back tears. “Well, I – I don’t want to go either sweetpea, trust me, I don’t.”  Sole’s tears began to streak down her face, as MacCready’s grip on her tightened desperately.  “You know something though?  Your dad, and your baby sister are going to need you.  Can you be brave like you are right now?”

Duncan wailed somberly, his face and fingers sticky with the tears and snot that mingled there, nevertheless, he nodded.

“Good, good boy,” Sole’s voice broke. “I’m so lucky I got the chance to be your mom,”

Dr. Amari’s face swam into sight from behind MacCready’s trembling form.

“I…I’m so sorry but we…we must act soon if we are to at all.”

Sole nodded with finality; her face still streaming with tears, but lacking the bleakness on MacCready’s.  The face of a woman who would not regret what she was about to do.  Sole was dragged suddenly to MacCready as he brought her into a kiss, salty with their tears.

“Please don’t go, I need you too, you know.” His voice was low and anguished.

Sole braced her hands on either side of MacCready’s face, tethering him to her with her gaze, willing him to burn her face, their final moments together, into his brain.

“Believe me when I say that I’d rather go this way, bringing our child into the world, than live to be a hundred out here in the Commonwealth, having never met you.”

Sole’s gaze, alert and strong despite her dimming state, bore into his for a few moments longer; frantically trying to commit his to memory, as she hoped he did to her.  Then, the gurney started moving, and Sole let go.

MacCready let out a raw sob, tears blurring the sight of Sole and Amari as they disappeared into another sectioned off part of the Memory Den’s basement.  One where Amari had prepared a team of a few trusted acquaintances and some supplies to welcome the newborn into the world.  A room that would become the neo-natal unit for the evening; a room Sole would not come out of again.

-

Janessa flinched away from the cold metal, letting the 9mm pistol drop to the dusty ground.

“It’s alright, it won’t hurt you.” Duncan chided, stooping over to pick up the gun, before folding Janessa’s fingers around it firmly.

The younger girl still looked at it like it might bite her, despite the resigned way she held it.

“It’ll help you – eventually,” her older brother reassured her, “but first you need to learn how to use it.”

Janessa sighed, but didn’t protest further.  Her daddy, was really good at using this…this  _thing_ , and other things like it.  He had taught Duncan, and now Duncan had brought it upon himself to teach her.

“Did daddy say it was okay?”

Duncan hesitated, “I’m sure he’ll be impressed when you show him!  He definitely can’t be mad about it.  Anyways,” Duncan crouched beside her, lowering his face so that they were at the same eye level, and pointing in the distance.  Janessa followed his finger with her eyes, until her gaze landed on a NukaCola bottle sitting on a rusted mailbox laying on its side.

“We’re going to shoot that today.”

Janessa’s eyebrows furrowed, her face settling into a natural pout.

“Is this…safe?” she asked doubtfully.

Duncan rolled his eyes, “It’s a bottle! It’s not going to fight back.”

Irritation flashed through Janessa, hot and sharp, she obviously had been talking about other dangers.  The bullet deflecting off the surface of the mailbox or shooting someone else on accident; she had never so much as held one a gun before, after all.  Janessa didn’t voice any of this to Duncan though; she didn’t exactly know enough to properly argue her case, and from her experience, she’d wind up doing what he wanted regardless.

“Alright, so first, you want to grasp it firmly with both hands – make sure you keep your fingers off the trigger.  That’s rule number one.”

She nodded attentively, inching her index fingers even further away from the trigger than they already were.

“Next, we’d take the safety off – but I already did,” Duncan grinned boyishly as Janessa glowered at him.

“Okay, so step three, you’re going to raise your arms, and square your shoulders.”

Duncan watched as she did this, before gently nudging his hands upwards against her arms, shifting them slightly more upwards.”

“Alright, perfect.  Remember, you only want to point this,” he nodded at the gun, “when you want to shoot whatever you point it at.”

Butterflies fluttered nervously in Janessa’s stomach.  She swallowed, nodding earnestly, her eyebrows drawing together anxiously as pictures of people she didn’t want to point it at, flashed through her mind.

“Look for the bottle again – do you have it?”

She focused in on the bottle.

“I have it.”

“Good,” Duncan nodded approvingly, “now make sure that little notch on the gun matches up to the bottle – or whatever it is you want to shoot.”

Janessa shifted a hair’s breadth to the right, so that the notch was now perfectly aligned with the bottle.

“Good, now hit it!”

Duncan stepped backwards right as the gun cracked loudly.  Janessa squealed as she felt the recoil, while in the distance, they could hear the sound of metal being punctured.  Duncan studied the bottle, still standing proudly atop the mailbox, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Hm.  Bummer.  Everything looked good from where I was standing.”

“That sucked!” She huffed, throwing the gun to the ground.

“Hey! Careful with tha-“

“You never told me it would hurt!”

Tears welled in Janessa’s eyes, as she rubbed the sore palms of her hands.

“Or that it would be so loud,” her voice wobbled.

Duncan sighed, crouching down to try and sooth his distraught sister.

“What’s going on out here?”

Janessa and Duncan instantaneously looked up at the sound of their father’s voice.  One eyebrow was cocked upwards as he surveyed the scene before him; Janessa crying, Duncan with a guilty look on his face, and a gun sitting on the ground a few feet away.

Christ, please don’t let them have shot someone.

“Daddy!” His daughter wailed.

Duncan scratched the back of his neck nervously.

“I was just trying to teach her to shoot.”

MacCready looked thoughtful for a moment, before he knelt down by Janessa.

“Your brother’s right in that it’s a good skill to know,” Duncan made a triumphant look, and MacCready looked at him sharply, wiping it clean off, “but…I won’t force you if you’re not ready.”

Janessa sniffled, rubbing her eyes frustratedly.

“C-Can you teach me instead?” she hiccuped.

MacCready smiled comfortingly, “Sure, sweetheart.”

Duncan reached for the pistol, handing it to MacCready, who then proceeded to wrap Janessa’s hands around it, similarly to how Duncan did.

“Alright, so first off, you want to grip it using –“

“Both hands,” she finished, “Duncan taught me that.”

“Okay, so then secondly, if the safety’s on, turn it off, but make sure –“

“My finger’s off the trigger.” Janessa recited, “Duncan taught me that too.”

MacCready chuckled, looking back at his son.

“He did a good job of teaching you then.”

Duncan perked up at the compliment, beaming.

“So then, what are you having trouble with?”

Janessa frowned, “I can’t hit the bottle even though I lined it up with the notch.”

MacCready nodded, quiet for a few pensive moments.

“Have you tried holding your breath while you aim?  It’s something snipers usually do, but it does help steady your hand.”

“I guess I could try that,”

“Good,” MacCready positioned himself behind Janessa, his large arms moving over hers to steady her grip on the gun.

“Okay, do you have it in your sight?”

“Yes.”

“Are you holding your breath?”

Janessa nodded emphatically.

“Great.  Now, on the count of three, try and hit the bottle.  Remember, you’re going to feel a sharp recoil, okay?”

She nodded again, this time less enthusiastic.

“Good girl.  One, two, three –“

The gun went off again, but this time, Janessa met the recoil with strength, her stance firm.  Meanwhile, the sharp sound of splintering glass could be heard as the bottle exploded into a thousand smithereens.

“I hit it!” Janessa exclaimed, turning around to throw her arms around her dad’s neck.

MacCready grinned, wrapping his arms around her.

“Good job kiddo! I’m proud of you.”

He planted a kiss at the top of her head, before raising his hand in offering.

“You’re a natural shot,” he told her, as she bounced up to slap her hand against his.

“Well, she did have a pretty good teacher…” Duncan said matter-of-factly.

MacCready rose to muss his hair.

“She did, nice one Dunc.”

Janessa spun around, hands on her hips.

“Well, I didn’t actually make the shot until daddy helped, so there!”

“Yeah, but who taught you the rest?” Duncan asked exasperatedly.

MacCready chuckled, watching his kids bicker.  Janessa looked so much like her mother; despite the icy blue eyes and potty mouth she inherited from him - the rest was all Sole.  It was as if her mother came down to make the shot herself, when Janessa pulled that trigger.

“Alright, that’s enough,”

His heart squeezed yet again, as his daughter turned to him, eyes wide and earnest.  The latter would linger in her gaze for the rest of her life; Sole had kept such sincerity with her to the very end.

“Let’s go home,”

MacCready set off in a home bound direction, his kids loping behind him easily, their banter following in his wake.

 **Nick Valentine** : The idea of having kids hadn’t ever occurred to Nick.  Of course, it had occurred to the old Nick – the one who had been engaged to Jenny.  But this one?  He hadn’t even the hardware to make conception happen, let alone the  _juice_.  When he had begun seeing Sole, it was something that had crossed his mind whenever they had gotten intimate; a flash of irritation mingled with shame would strike him, but Sole’s lips would be there to brush such worries away.

When he and Sole had vowed to love each other in front of all their friends and family, it had crossed Nick’s mind – first came love, then came marriage, then came baby in the baby carriage, or so it was said.  On their wedding night, Sole had wiped his mind of such worries with whispered touches and a degree of tenderness that they had kept locked preciously behind that door.

When Dr. Sun had told them that perhaps there was a way for them to conceive, even if it was a bit…unorthodox, Nick had refused to believe it at first.  It seemed impossible; so why get his hopes up?  He dared not dream of a cherub-faced boy, with Sole’s eyes, and his wit.

But then, against every outcome Nick had prepared for, Sole had gotten pregnant.  It had been a miracle; even the most skeptical in Diamond City couldn’t help but be in awe at the news; that there would be one more Valentine roaming the streets in just nine months.

Nick looked at Sole’s still body, numbed into submission.  Her body hollow; their son delivered and with Dr. Sun, and her…where?  Where was she now that she wasn’t here with him?  Bleakly, Nick mused at this; what a human thought – to wonder, what comes next?  He wasn’t so sure for himself either.  Sole’s corpse was covered from the shoulders down into a fresh bed sheet; replacing the blood-soaked one used in the grisly procedures that had taken place a few hours prior.  She had died from a pulmonary embolism, Dr. Sun had said.  Those words probably had meaning to him, but all they meant to Nick was that he’d have to raise their son alone.  Raw grief seemed to swallow him from the inside out.  It felt silly to think, but ‘breathing felt harder’.  His chest felt heavy, as if the intricate pieces and parts stowed safely in his chest cavity were mucked down by his grief.  The coolant seemed to swim sluggishly through his tubes, and he had half a mind that the steady whirring that came from him might suddenly stop; the other half hoped it would.

“Detective Valentine,” Dr. Sun’s reedy voice sounded from behind him.

Nick didn’t turn, his head bowed, his face shrouded by the rim of his hat.

“Your son – he’s healthy.  Would you…” Dr. Sun cleared his throat.  “Would you like to hold him?”

When Nick didn’t answer again, Dr. Sun approached carefully with the fragile bundle in his arms.  If not for the machine hum that droned from Nick’s quiet form, Dr. Sun would have mistaken him for joining Sole.

“He has her eyes,” Dr. Sun offered quietly.  “But your nose, I think.  Why don’t you have a look?”

Dr. Sun stood there, privy to Nick’s stony silence for a few moments, before the synth turned the slightest bit towards the infant.

“Yeah, he’s a handsome fellow.” Dr. Sun tried again, awkwardly.

Nick wheezed slightly, a phantom of a chuckle he might’ve offered at a different time.

“Well his mother is…was a pretty picture.”

“She was radiant,” Dr. Sun agreed, uncharacteristically tender.

A few more silent notes hung over, and Dr. Sun wondered at the intensity Nick was reminiscing, his astonishing gaze unfocused as they let happier memories whisk them away.  Then, Nick was looking up at Dr. Sun, his arms half-heartedly outstretched. Dr. Sun stared dumbly back at him, before springing into motion, and setting the baby gently into Nick’s waiting arms.  Nick cradled his son close to him, and the infant yawned sleepily, his peace not the least bit challenged by the change of hands.

“Did you have a name picked out?”

Nick watched his son sleep, feeling love as tremendous as his grief.  Not all lost.

-

At first glance, the Valentine Detective Agency appeared unchanged from eight years before.  Ellie still sat merrily at the front, awaiting the distraught clients that would burst through the door, asking if the Detective was in.  Files still sat splayed on the desk in the corner; a few flipped open, others with a big, fat  _CLOSED_ stamped haphazardly across the front in an alarming red.  The neon pink sign outside still glowed through the darkest night; a beacon of hope in the vast uncertainty and paranoia that threatened to sink Diamond City.

However, there were a few changes, perceptible to the observant eye.  The door of the Agency fridge was plastered with a child’s drawings; some of Ellie, some of Nick, some of both of them, with a smaller figure tucked between them – a self-portrait of the artist, as noted by the Nike, that was scrawled at the bottom right corner of each page.  Tucked neatly on the top shelf of the bookcase central to the Agency’s main operating space, sat an array of scrappily bound books; much different from the case files that resided on the shelves below.  These top-shelf titans of literature detailed the deep-set sensitivities of Deathclaws, and the whimsical tale of a mole rat who believed he could cook, with the same inquisitive nuances sprinkled in the fridge-drawings.

On the second floor, next to Nick’s bed, used now more than ever, was a nightstand.  Atop the worn wood, sat two frames, one with a drawing similar to the ones below, depicting just Nick and the artist.  The next one, had a faded picture of someone Nike had never met; but his dad seemed to think very important.  The woman in the picture had Nike’s eyes, and was wearing a green dress.  Her face was crumpled in joy in the picture, as if it were taken mid-laugh.  A constant reminder of the happiness that could be found in the world, if one let themselves see it.

The door slammed below, gently shaking the rest of the structure.  The pattering of smaller-than-usual footsteps sounded from below.  The pretty lady in the picture kept smiling, welcoming her son home.

 **Longfellow** : “Anoth’r please,” Longfellow swirled his finger in the air, signaling to Mitch that he needed another round.

Mitch sighed at the vicious slur that slanted Longfellow’s speech, as crooked as Longfellow’s tedious perch on his bar stool.

“Really?  Another?” Mitch asked wryly, “You don’t feel like you can call it a day yet?”

Longfellow glared blearily at him.

“Listen son, I’ve been drinkin’ at this waterin’ hole since before you were in diapers,” Longfellow stabbed his finger into the counter, “so trus’ me when I say I’ll know when I’ve had enough.  Anoth’r round,  _please._ ”

Mitch eyed the old sailor doubtfully but filled the empty shot glass in front of Longfellow up until it brimmed with whiskey.

“Atta boy,” Longfellow cheered sloppily, before lifting the glass to his lips, and throwing his head back.

Mitch watched Longfellow as he drank.  He hadn’t seen him like this in years.  Since before he had met Sole.  What would she say, if she saw him like this?  And while she was at home with the baby no less?  Debby sidled up to Mitch, almost as if she could read his thoughts, and placed a warning hand on his shoulder.

“Cut him some slack Mitch,” she said in a low voice, “he’s just lost the mother of his child.”

Mitch jerked back under Debby’s touch, and turned to look at her, appalled.

“What do you mean ‘lost’?”

Debby’s eyes went wide.

“You mean you haven’t heard?  She died shortly after the delivery.  Teddy did everything he could, but…well.”

Mitch turned to look at Longfellow again, the glass now empty, his face now buried in his arms as he slumped over, drunk to the point of being mercifully anesthetized from his grief.  Mitch frowned, turning back to Longfellow, who shook every so often from the occasional hiccup.

“Hey Longfellow,”

“Mitch, don’t.” Debby hissed from behind him, but it fell on deaf ears.

“Ay, I think I’ve had - _hic_ \- enough.” Longfellow lifted himself slightly to look up at Mitch, as the bartender loomed over him.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Mitch scoffed.  “Say, why don’t you head over to Teddy’s, and see how your kid’s doin’?”

Longfellow winced as soon as the word ‘kid’ left Mitch’s lips.  He groaned painfully, running a hand tiredly across his face.

“You think your in a tough place?” Mitch pressed on, “What about your kid?  Not two days old, and already alone.  He needs you man, needs his daddy now more than ever.”

Longfellow wheezed, his head dropping slightly as a strangled sob left his throat.  Mitch leaned in closer, his voice softening.

“Besides, why should you both have to go through this alone?  He’s the only one who’s going to feel this grief like you do.”

Longfellow was quiet for a few moments, staring blankly down at his lap as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses sounded from around him.  When he spoke again finally, it was in a voice so hushed, Mitch couldn’t catch it the first time.

“She,” Longfellow mumbled quietly.

“Wha’s that?” Mitch leaned in closer.

“She,” Longfellow said again, more gruffly this time, as he looked up to meet Mitch’s gaze, his eyes red.  “’S a girl.”

Mitch exhaled, leaning back, and slinging the damp dish rag across his shoulder.

“A daughter, huh?  Well, I’ll be.”

The legs of the bar stool screeched unpleasantly against the dingy bar floor, earning a few annoyed looks from the nearby patrons.  Longfellow didn’t notice a single one, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.

“Put it on m’ tab,” he grumbled, before turning on his heel, and staggering out the door.

-

Longfellow leaned against the door frame of his cabin, staring out at the sandy shores that created a soft perimeter around his island.  Even from this distance, he could see the willowy form of his daughter, her limbs flinging angrily out towards the sea.  He sighed, both from his age, and his daughter’s; sixteen, a tumultuous one indeed.  Pushing off from the wood, scored with various height measurements from throughout the years, he made his way to the storm.  Athena had always been so proud of her growth, having wanted to grow up to be ‘big and strong like her daddy’.  It hadn’t been until she turned twelve, that it became an issue.  Long ago as it was, Longfellow could recall how catty girls that age could be to one another.

When he finally reached her, she was slumped glumly in the sand, a frown deep-set on her face.  Longfellow groaned as he sat down next to her.

“I’m gettin’ so old,” he grumbled, as he felt his joints creak under the motion.

He aimed a side glance towards his daughter, searching for a trace of humor, and finding none.

“’Course, bein’ young ain’t no cake walk either,” he continued. “Growin’ up can be a bitch.”

This earned a distraught sniffle from the girl beside him.  Longfellow kept his eyes trained on the horizon, knowing that tears would follow soon.

“It sucks!” Athena choked out, her voice constricted with hurt rage.  “T-today I w-was the only girl who could out-lift Orev S-Sandoval during break, and T-T-Trina Fox said t-that she d-didn’t know Super Mutants c-came in a color other than g-g-green.”

Athena hiccuped loudly, before a series of ragged sobs sounded from her.

Longfellow clicked his tongue, waving his hand dismissively, “An’ what the hell does Trina Fox know?”

He gave her a few minutes to compose herself and respond.  Athena brought her wrist brusquely against her eyes, in an attempt to get rid of the tears that blurred her vision, only to have them replaced instantly.

“S-She’s the p-prettiest girl in our c-class,” Athena sniffled, ashamed.

Longfellow swallowed nervously; talking had never been his strong point.  Especially about…such matters.  Before, he might’ve passed a distraught Athena along to her mother, but that wasn’t an option.  He sighed, thinking carefully about how to respond.  About how Sole might’ve.

“Prettiest girl?” Longfellow sniffed, “I wouldn’t be so sure.  You come from a long line of especially strong, beautiful women.”

Athena looked at her dad in a tearfully disbelieving look.

“Really?”

Longfellow pursed his lips, “Well, sure!  Your grandmother, Lovella Longfellow was renowned around the island for her beauty!  An’ she also bested many a man at a few bar brawls back in her day!”

Athena studied Longfellow for a few moments, skeptical.

“An’ yer aunt, Rhythm Longfellow received so many proposals, she had a  _whole_ drawer dedicated to engagement rings.  She could also shoot the ass off o’ any mirelurk that stepped foot on our property!”

Athena wrinkled her nose.

“A drawer full of engagement rings?  No way!”

Longfellow let out a hearty chuckle, “You don’ believe me?”

Athena giggled, “Of course not! That’s ridiculous!”

Longfellow’s mouth curved into a bittersweet smile, “Well, tha’s alright, because the most beautiful woman of all, was a woman named Sole.  An’ she was also the strongest.”

“My mother?” Athena asked quietly.

“Tha’s right.” Longfellow sighed, settling in, training his eyes firmly on the waves as they lapped at the shore, now for his own sake.  “She came from the mainland and earned the respect o’ every harborman by doin’ the Captain’s Dance.”

Athena’s eyes widened, “It was her?  Mom was the mainlander who did the Captain’s Dance?”

Longfellow nodded sagely, “She was.  Wish ye could’ve seen her; the wind in her hair, sun dancin’ in ‘er eyes, standin’ over the Mirelurk Queen; one in her own right.”

The water rushed the shore, the crashing of the waves and calling of the seagulls the perfect soundtrack as Longfellow reminisced quietly, and Athena dreamt.

“Am I like her?”

Longfellow turned to his daughter now, his chest squeezing as he plucked a wildflower from a clump of scraggly grass beside him.  He tucked it behind her ear, along with a lock of hair.

“Why, yer the spittin’ image o’ her.”

 **Gage** :  Gage’s back hit the wall as he slumped down, his arms careful not to jostle the fragile bundle in them.  Her small eyes were screwed shut, and her skin was a fussy pink.  Her mouth puckered up unhappily for a moment, before she opened it and a shrill wail tore from it, as if she knew about the grisly scene and her mother’s corpse in the next room over.  Gage rocked her gently, cooing softly.  He was too dazed to feel embarrassed at the soft noises he made.  Shifting her so that she was rocking gently in one arm, he wiggled one finger near her as she reached out to grope blindly in the air.  One small hand caught his calloused finger, and for a moment Gage was warped away from his grief as he marveled at his daughter’s astoundingly strong grip.

“Hey now,”

Gage heard his voice call to his daughter.  Except, it wasn’t his voice at all.  It had his rasp, and the drawl that made his ears burn with indignation because he thought it made him sound uneducated.  It was…different somehow though; softer, like a child-safe version of his usual gruffness.  His daughter’s warbled cries softened as she brought the finger to her mouth, and sucked gently.

“Yeah, I know, I miss her too,”

Something hot streaked down his cheek, and somewhere, far from here, at the darkened summit of Fizztop Mountain, he knew he was crying.

“Yer daddy’s here though.”

Gage sat, holding his daughter in the dark as outside, the cacophony of savage cries cut through the night.

The Overboss was dead.  It wasn’t just breaking news, but a sort of feeling that had settled in the air.  Tension that the Desciples could cut with their knives, and the Pack could take a large bite out of; chaos the Operators could orchestrate in.  Respected as Sole was, the strategic Gage, the one who knew that he and his daughter were sitting ducks here, as he waited for husband, and now father Gage, to finish grieving.  Sole had disassembled the Gauntlet months ago; right after she had made them all rich again; both in caps and territory.  In other words, there was a whole world waiting for a new King, and no agreed upon procedure in choosing a successor.  Sole’s body would barely be cold, before the vulture came to pick her crown clean.  Gage watched as silhouettes danced menacingly against the light backdrop the bonfires outside cast through the window.

He left at dawn the next morning; before anyone would think to send a messenger to confirm the news of Sole’s death.  He packed nearly nothing; just his gun slung against his back, and his daughter across his chest, carefully nestled beneath his caged armor; no one would suspect he was leaving until it was too late.  Gage knew not of where he was heading, save that it was north, and had a cluster of blue houses; a detail Sole had mentioned.  He knew some of her old do-gooder friends would be there; a man named Preston Garvey, for an example.  He had seen him once before, with a laser musket in-hand, and his eyes blazing with hatred from beneath the rim of a pinned, colonial hat.  This man dedicated his life to purging the Commonwealth from scum like himself.  Gage hoped that would be enough to save his daughter, if not him.  He also knew such protection would not come cheap; not after Sole’s betrayal, and the atrocities they had committed against the Commonwealth.  Such disdain for people like him was exactly what he knew his daughter needed though, for who else would protect her from the monsters he and Sole had created?

His daughter was good.  Untainted and unscathed by the crimes her parents committed.  This is what he told Preston Garvey, now, the General of the Minutemen, as he begged for him to spare their lives.  Gage had made it to the bridge that opened up into Sanctuary Hills by first light the next day, when a group of heavily armed Minutemen had greeted him, barrels to his face.

“This is Sole’s daughter,” Gage reasoned, on his knees, one arm raised above his head, palm open in a gesture of surrender, as his other arm curled protectively around Ayan.

“Sole cut ties with us a while ago,” Preston returned coldly.

Gage could see the hurt that underscored Preston’s anger; understood it even.  When Sole had first defeated Colter and the Gauntlet, she hadn’t been eager to accept the Overboss position, much to Gage’s dismay.  He couldn’t imagine having to watch Sole leave after months of being built up by her.  Her flightiness was both a curse and her biggest allure.  It was the bold, reckless nature that drew others to her – and what made it so easy for her to leave them behind later.

“I…realize that,” Gage admitted, “I know you don’t owe me a damned thing, but…my daughter, she’s innocent.  She’s the type y’all fight to protect here.  I ain’t askin’, I’m beggin’ – help her.  Not for me, not for Sole, but because she’s innocent and needs yer help.”

Gage’s head bowed; what would Sole say if she saw him now?  Would she be proud that he left his pride in NukaWorld for the sake of their daughter?  Would she be disgusted as he knelt groveling before Preston Garvey?  Would she understand that the type of strength he needed had changed when they had Ayan?  This new strength, unselfish, that left no room for his pride, instead knowing that it required great sacrifice; and allowing him to make it.

Preston’s eyes narrowed, as he scrutinized the raider.  Rain began to pelt down from the sky.  Gage hunched over further, desperate to keep his newborn dry.

“Your daughter is innocent.”

Gage let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“And she’s the only reason I’ll allow you entry into Sanctuary.”

“Shit, I…”

“But,” Preston cut him off, his gaze still as icy as the rain that drenched them, “you will spend the rest of your days making amends to the very people you’ve hurt.”

Gage felt cold pool in his stomach, as if some of the frigid droplets had seeped in.

“Deal.”

-

Ayan tossed her light brown curls over her shoulder, doing a quick one-eighty before sliding a bobby pin from behind her ear, and jamming it into the lock of the toolbox in the Sanctuary community shed.   _Is it really communal if you put a big fat lock on it?_  Ayan thought, feeling triumphant as it clicked naturally under her lithe fingers.  Coaxing it open, she slid her hand in, wrapping her fingers around the handle of a wrench, before suddenly the lid slammed down on her wrist.  Ayan snatched her hand back, hissing in pain, and looking up to meet the sour expression of a Minuteman, the butt of his gun pressing forcefully down on the toolbox lid.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he scowled at her.

The girl looked shrewdly back at him, rubbing her sore wrist.

“My daddy needs tools and you stupid Minutemen won’t let him have them, so I decided to get them for him.”

“You mean you decided to steal them,”

“Steal them?  I thought this was the communal tool shed,” Ayan shot back, “and daddy and I are apart of the community, last time I checked.”

The man scoffed, “’Part of the community?’  Your pa’s a criminal serving a sentence.”

“Is not!” she exclaimed indignantly.

The Minuteman grabbed her tightly by the upper arm, dragging her with him as he started out the door, and towards the small house Ayan shared with her father.  When they got there, Gage was manning the weapon’s stand as he did every day; in this particular moment, making repairs on a pipe pistol.  Gage immediately stopped what he was doing when he saw his daughter being manhandled by the Minuteman.

“What’s going on here?” Gage stood up, his jaw clenched, though he did not forget his place.

“Your little rat daughter was sneaking around, trying to steal tools.” The Minuteman sneered.

Ayan looked up at Gage, her eyebrows drawn together.

“That’s not true daddy!”

The man glared coldly at her, “She was caught picking a lot on the communal tool shed.”

The man thrust his arm forward, releasing Ayan as he did so, sending her skittering towards her father.  Gage caught her before she could fall over, glaring at the Minuteman.

“You can trust I’ll discipline her properly.”

The Minuteman curled his lip, shaking his head disgustedly.  The man turned on his heel, ready to leave.

“The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said from over his shoulder, “trash, just like her parents.”

The man left.

Ayan noticed the vein throbbing at Gage’s temple, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“Have a good day now,” Gage murmured tightly, to the Minuteman’s retreating form.

She winced when Gage looked down at her, his expression bleak.  Hot tears sprang from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry daddy,” her voice trembled, “I…didn’t mean to.”

Gage sighed, before resting his hand on her shoulder, and gently ushering her into the kitchen.  Ayan’s stomach flipped as her father’s face remained unreadable.  She sat obediently down at the table, waiting as Gage to take the seat across from her, his gaze fixed on his lap.  Ayan’s heart hammered in her chest, her palms sporting a clammy sweat as she waited for him to speak.

“I’m…” Gage started, running a tired hand over his face.  “I’m sorry.”

She sat stunned for a few moments.

“I’m sorry I…didn’t defend you.” Gage continued, his voice gravelly and low.

Ayan pressed her mouth into a thin line.

“Daddy,” her voice sounded small, “p-please don’t apologize.”

She reached across the table to take one of her dad’s large hands in her own smaller ones.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Gage raised his head to look her in the eyes, his own shining in the light.

“Listen here Ayan,” he said, his voice tight.  “Yer not trash.  Don’t you ever believe it, not for a second.”

Her own tears escaped her, as her grip on her father’s hand tightened.

“I’m sorry daddy,” she said again, if only to get him back to his normal self.  She hated seeing him like this; all sad, and disappointed.

“Don’t be,” Gage said resolutely, “yer mother, she picked tons of locks – even when she was with the Minutemen.”

Ayan made a face; her mother?  With the Minutemen?  She tried to imagine a woman who looked like her, but older, in one of those silly colonial dusters, and hats.  She couldn’t.

“Ye jus’ gotta…pick yer battles.” Gage said, with a half-smile.

“I know,” Ayan nodded, her eyes uncharacteristically serious. “I did, daddy.”

Gage rolled his eyes, reaching over to ruffle her hair, “Alright, then pick better battles.”

 **Preston** :  It was dark, casting the nursery’s periwinkle blues as stark greys.  In the crib, beneath the rocket ship mobile Sole had refurbished, his son slept.  Preston sat in a chair he’d pulled to the boy’s crib side, watching him as he slept; glad one of them could find peace.  Something passed through Preston’s peripheral vision, but Preston paid it no mind until it crossed its arms, leaning against the door frame.

“They’re waiting on you,” Sturges’ drawl interrupted the quiet Preston had seemed set on resigning himself to.

“I’m not going.” Preston said quietly.

“Not even for the Abernathy’s?” the handyman asked, surprised.  “You’ve been sitting out the last few calls; I get it, you need to be close to your son, especially…” he trailed off, his own eyes flashing with hurt Preston dared not show.  “But the Abernathy’s are practically our neighbors.”

Preston shrugged.

“Hm,” Sturges watched Preston for a few moments longer.  “Well, surely you’ll be there when they pick a new General, right?  You’re a senior member after all.”

“They’re picking a new General so soon?” Preston asked sharply, glaring at Sturges.

Sturges raised his hands in a ‘whoa, there’ gesture.

“I know, I know.  She’s barely been gone three days, and already…”

Preston turned back towards his son, his shoulders bowed, and eyes glistening as stray shards of moonlight danced off them.

“The fact of the matter is, that the Minutemen need a General.  It’s not personal,” Sturges tried again, his words cutting, his voice gentle.

Preston clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to say something without hitting something.  He trained his eyes on his son’s breathing, as he released the tension that coiled in his tensed fists.

“She was my wife.  I asked her to be General.  Now she’s dead – everything about it is personal.”

Sturges sighed.

“She’s dead, and the Minutemen need a leader.”

Preston didn’t answer.

“Your son needs his father, and his father – Preston, I know you, you need the Minutemen.”

“I need Sole.” He murmured, before silently rising to his feet, grabbing his musket, propped up against the back of his chair, and slinging it over his back.

“They’re waiting for you at the bridge,” Sturges said, as Preston passed him on the way out.

The answering  _‘Thanks’_  was so hasty, lingering underneath the Minuteman’s passing breath, that Sturges could barely hear it.  Preston’s grateful hand on his shoulder only confirmed it.

-

“Octavius?” Preston called, his eyes scanning the Sanctuary street around him.

No response.  Preston cupped his hands around his mouth, before trying again.

“Octavius Fulbright Garvey!”

Preston’s eyebrows furrowed.  The sun was beginning its descent for the day, and as the streetlights lining Sanctuary’s main road turned aglow, Preston’s anxiety grew.  When he still didn’t see his son running towards him, he decided to round the side of their house, into their backyard.

“Octavius!”

A muffled ‘Dad?’ sounded from above Preston, drawing his gaze to a familiar face peeking at him from between the gnarled branches of the old oak tree that hadn’t grown since the property belonged to Sole and her pre-war family.

“Octavius, what did I tell you?”

His son grinned sheepishly at him, before lithely disembarking, landing lightly on his feet, reminding Preston vaguely of the superstition that revolved around cats always landing on their feet.

“I have to come in once the streetlights come on,” Octavius recited, his eyes shooting downward guiltily.

“Well, what time do you think it is?” Preston asked his son wryly, cocking an eyebrow up.

“I swear, I was just about to come in!  I just…needed a few more minutes.” His son defended weakly.

Preston sighed, “What were you doing up in a tree anyways?”

Octavius pursed his lips, rocking back on his heels, as if deciding whether or not to answer honestly.

“ _Octavius_ ,” Preston warned.

“Okay, okay! I was…I wanted to try and be closer to mom.”

Preston’s eyebrows flew up, surprised by his son’s response.

“Marena Long told me that when people die, if they’re good, they go up to Heaven, because that’s how she and her parents talk to Kyle” Octavius explained, “and mom was good, wasn’t she?”

Preston swallowed, his throat suddenly tightened.

“She was.”

“That’s what I thought too, so I figured she must be in Heaven, and I wanted to see if maybe I could get closer, because,” Octavius struggled to compose his face, taking a moment to stifle the slight tremble of his lips.  “because, I never got to meet her, and I’m afraid she’ll be so far away, that I forget about her.  Or even worse – _she’ll_ forget about  _me_.”

Preston’s chest squeezed, and he dropped to one knee, so that he could be at the same eye level as his son.  Preston raised an arm to rest his hand on his Octavius’ shoulder.

“Heaven is…”

Preston paused, deliberating over what to say next to his son, who was looking at him expectantly.

“It’s…everywhere,” Preston tried again, “so, your mom, she’s with you, all the time.  You don’t need to climb a tree to see her.”

“Really?” Octavius squeaked, wetness budding at his eyes.

“Really,” Preston’s gaze softened, “she’s all around us, all the time, watching over us wherever we go.  And most importantly, she’s in here,” Preston raised two fingers to tap at the left side of Octavius’ chest, where his heart was.

“So she knows me?”

Preston snorted, “Not only does she know you, but she loves you, very much.”

Octavius was quiet for a few moments, and Preston watched his son, in all of his thoughtfulness.  His jutting lip, the sharp focus in his eyes, hidden beneath his understanding, thoughtful disposition.  He asked so many questions, and somehow, still had all the answers all the time.  Wise beyond his years, is what Mama Murphy used to say about him, even when he was younger.  Sole must be so proud, at their funny, inquisitive son.  She must marvel at how he took after her, despite sharing Preston’s golden eyes, which got starry in the presence of the Minutemen – also much like his father.

“Don’t scare me like that again, okay buddy?” Preston rested a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I won’t dad, I’m sorry.” Octavius puffed his cheeks out, ashamed at being scolded.

Preston pulled his son into his chest, wrapping him into a tight hug.  He felt smaller arms struggle to wrap around his larger frame as his son returned the embrace.

“But dad?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t lose me like you did mom, so you don’t have to worry so much, okay?  I’ll be careful.”

Preston’s eyes burned as he let out a slow breath, and pulled back, sniffling slightly.

“You know me, I’ll always worry about you.  I’m your dad, it’s my job.”

Octavius smiled, “Yeah, I know.”

Preston took his hat off and placed it on Octavius’s his head, using the way it dipped over his eyes as an opportunity to sweep the boy up into his arms, bracing him at his hip.

“Let’s go get dinner.”

“Dad!  I’m too old for you to pick me up!” Octavius complained loudly, holding the hat up with two hands, so that he could see, unable to contain the carefree laugh that bubbled in his throat as his father carried him home for the day.

 **X6-88** :  X6 sat out in the waiting room, denoted by the array of chairs mounted on the wall, despite being just as sterile as the procedure room itself.  It was silent; X6 being the only one in the waiting room.  The clock ticked on relentlessly on the wall behind him, filling the room with the droning ticks as time marched stubbornly on.  When a nurse finally stepped out of the room, she looked to her clipboard, tugging her glasses from the loop around her neck, to perch them on her nose.

“Would the parents of Padma come forth?  Padma?”

X6 rose to his feet, approaching the nurse as he ignored the raw grief that gnawed at him as he did so.  Before he had met her he had been quite adept at ignoring frivolous emotional responses.  Such a skill would come in handy now, not to mention Sole was no longer there to coax him into opening up.  Suddenly, it was like the wind had been knocked out of him, and X6’s breath caught in his throat as he choked on the image of his late wife popping up in his head.  The nurse looked up from her clipboard at the noise the man made.

“You are…the father?  Shall we wait for the mother?”  Her eyes looked puzzledly at him.

Wordlessly, X6 shook his head.

“Well, alright then, this way please.”

X6 followed the nurse through the pediatric wing, as tearfully joyous parents held tiny bundles in their arms.  He let the images of exuberant parents roll off his back.

“Padma had some troubles breathing at first, but her lungs seem to be as healthy as ever now.  Congrats, papa!”

At the end of the hall, in a glass bassinet, swaddled in pink blankets, a baby lay fussing quietly, no happy parents in sight.  The nurse watched as X6 appraised the baby.

“Well, go on, it’s okay for you to hold her now!”

X6 stepped forward on cue, peering over the edge of the bassinet.  The tiny face had his icy blue eyes – just as she had hoped.  He stared at the baby, as time drudged on, this time without the announcement of the ticking clock.  It occurred to him that he should be feeling something when he looked at his daughter; but he couldn’t.  No squeezing in his chest, not swooping sensation in his stomach.  Nothing.  He’d bet Sole would’ve been like the parents he’d passed on the way to Padma; tearful, ecstatic - like they looking into their child’s face, and were seeing the physical embodiment of everything  _good_.  He wondered if he’d have felt something if Sole had been here.  A vision of Sole holding this small child swam through his mind.  Dream-Sole brought the child close to rub her nose lovingly against their daughter’s, while dream-X6 watched on, his hands at Sole’s waist.

There was that choking sensation again, as X6 felt his lungs stumble, releasing the air they held an instance before.  His chest squeezed viciously, as his eyes stung.  X6 looked to the child, to find his cold stare gazing steadily back at him.  The terrible sensations were gone; and he stood as fine as he was when he’d first laid eyes on the child.  X6 frowned; that’s how little he felt towards his daughter.

“Tired?” The nurse asked in a sympathetic voice.

“Yeah.”

The nurse made a light tsk’ing noise.

“Well, c’mon, we can wait for mama to come back.  The two of you could probably use some rest anyways; it’s not like you’ll be getting any in the next few months.”

X6 sighed; he didn’t suppose he would either.

-

X6 lay, Sole wrapped luxuriously in his arms, her eyes gazing earnestly into his, with a timid flush at her cheeks.  X6 allowed the smallest of smiles; since it was just them, as he leaned in, brushing his nose against hers affectionately.  Sole giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck so that she could bring him in for a kiss.  Her warm breath fanned over his lips, awakening a raw ache in his chest he hadn’t felt in years.

_Daddy!_

X6’s raised his hand to cup Sole’s cheek, reveling in her soft skin.  Had it always been so silky?

_Daddy, wake up!_

X6 felt a sharp push at his side, but when he looked down, it was just Sole’s hand resting there.  He looked puzzledly up at Sole, his face an expression of uncharacteristic confusion.  Sole giggled again.

“Looks like our time is up,”

X6’s eyebrows furrowed as another sharp push jabbed into his side.  When he looked up, Sole had vanished.

X6’s eyes shot open right in time for Padma’s face to loom over him as another sharp push made impact.  X6 propped himself into an upright position, using both hands to calmly disengage the four-year-old from him.  She giggled hysterically as he managed to untangle her enough so that he could stand upright.  With a new opportunity presenting itself, Padma excitedly wrapped herself around her father’s leg like a sloth.  X6 walked gently to the kitchen, moving carefully.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

He looked down, watching as Padma thought, her cheeks puffing out cutely as she did so.  It was obvious when she figured it out, her face lighting up like in those old pre-war cartoons; as if a literal light bulb hung over her head.

“Daddy, can we have a tea party?”

X6 stared at the girl for a few moments, as she looked pleadingly up at him.

“You have to finish all your eggs first, before we have any cake.”

“Yay!” Padma squealed in excitement.

It only took about ten minutes to finish cooking the eggs; he and Padma both preferred them sunny side up.  The harder part was brewing the tea, and then letting it cool enough so that he could transfer it into the tiny, plastic, pink teacup that was part of Padma’s tea set – all the while letting his daughter ‘help’, while ensuring she didn’t burn herself.  Once the whole ordeal was ready, it was a total twenty minutes later.  Cautiously, X6 arranged the teapot, teacups, and plates loaded with one egg each, onto the platter.  Balancing the platter carefully on his forearm, X6 followed Padma as she bounded down the hallway, but not before she grabbed the box of  _Fancy Lad’s Snack Cakes_  laying on the counter.

By the time X6 reached Padma’s room, and had set the platter on the kid-sized table, she had already changed into her princess dress, and was wearing her matching, sparkly, pink tiara.

“Sit down Daddy, it’s about to start!” Padma fluttered her hands hurriedly at him, gesturing at him to sit down.

X6 obediently smushed himself into one of the kid-sized chairs, allowing Padma to shove a purple, sparkly tiara, resembling hers, onto his head.

“Daddy, you look so pretty!”

X6 pressed a kiss atop his daughter’s head, his expression still as impassive as ever.

“Not as pretty as you, dear.”

Padma flounced to the seat on the other side of the table, before carefully picking up the teapot, and pouring it into his teacup first, before pouring some into her own.

“What kind of tea are we drinking today, Princess Daddy?”

X6 wrapped a finger around the tiny handle of his teacup, raising it.

“It’s raspberry chocolate flavored.”

“Very good indeed!” Padma gushed, in a posh accent. “Cheers!”

She raised her cup excitedly, and X6 met hers, carefully knocking their cups together, before raising his to his lips.

“Wait, wait!  We’re Princesses – pinkies out, Daddy!” his daughter scolded gently.

“My apologies, Princess.” X6 replied, sticking his pinky finger out, before resuming his sip.

He never did have a thing for sweets, but he’d been privy to enough Princess tea parties by now to know that sweets were a part of the deal.

“Apology accepted!” Padma exclaimed happily, sticking a forkful of egg into her mouth.

X6 followed his daughter’s lead and ate his own breakfast, finishing as Padma got through about half of hers.

He noticed her slowing as she finished about three-quarters.

“Getting full?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

She frowned, not answering.

“If you’re full you don’t need to finish.” He blinked at her.

Padma puffed her cheeks out again, this time conflicted, as her gaze flicked to the box of snack cakes sitting next to the teapot.

“Are you full?” He asked, begrudgingly.

“Yes,” Padma frowned more deeply, her shoulders slumping.

X6 sighed, and gently stacked her plate on top of his empty one, before reaching for the box of snack cakes.  Padma gasped as she watched him, perking up instantly.

“Daddy, but you said…!”

“It’s not good to eat more than you can,” X6 said matter-of-factly, “so here’s your dessert.”

X6 already knew to go for the pink one, placing it in her outstretched hand, before picking up a purple one for himself.  He popped it into his mouth, trying to ignore the excessive sweetness as it curled around his tongue.  Meanwhile, Padma chewed happily, smacking her lips when she finished.

“Mm! Perfect for a princess tea party, right Daddy?”

“Mm.  Yes, quite.” X6 choked out from around the damned cake.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Do you think Mommy would’ve liked our tea parties too?”

X6 readied himself for the gut-wrenching feeling; this time meeting his grief readily.

“She would’ve loved them,” he answered in a steady voice.  “And she would’ve made a beautiful princess, just like you.”

“Daddy, do you miss her?” Padma blinked at her father curiously.

X6 swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Every day.”

Padma watched him for a few moments, too young to know what to do with her father’s admission to grief.

“But,” he said, sweeping his daughter up into his arms, sending her into another fit of giggles, “I’m lucky, because I get to have tea parties with a _real_  Princess every single day.”

Padma looped her fingers around her father’s neck, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.  He let his lips curl into a small smile.

“I love you, Daddy!” Padma blinked earnestly at him.

“I love you too.” X6 pressed his nose against his daughter’s, his chest warm with the tremendous love he felt for the little girl in his arms.

His chest gave a loopy little squeeze, and X6 closed his eyes, content at the feeling, grateful he could feel at all.

 **Maxson** :  “Can I see her?” Arthur rasped tiredly, his brow furrowed.

Knight – Captain Cade cleared his throat, “Elder Maxson, Sir, I’m afraid your daughter is still being seen by our pediatric specialist.  It’ll be a few-“

“No, the other her.” Arthur cut off, his voice tight.

Cade hesitated, before his gaze dropped to his shoes, “Yes sir, I’ll take you to her.”

He turned on his heel, and Arthur followed him down the corridor, past the room where his newborn daughter lay under the scrutiny of the pediatric specialist and several scribes.  The tinny hallways grew quieter, as Arthur and Cade continued on, until they reached a door at the very end.

“I should warn you; while the…wounds have been covered, the sight of her…like this, might still be jarring.  You should prepare yourself, sir.” Cade’s voice was quiet.

“There is no possible way someone can prepare for this,” Arthur said, his brow still stubbornly, deeply furrowed, as he pushed through the door.

Most of the surgical equipment has been cleaned up; leaving a lone table in the center, with what was obviously a body – Sole’s body – covered in a sheet.  Arthur swallowed, his throat raw from the tears he forcefully stifled.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Cade murmured, before disappearing behind the closed door.

Arthur moved to the stool resting at Sole’s bedside, before shifting it slightly, so that it was by her head.  He hesitated before lifting the sheet from her face, his fingers hovering over it, before he went through with it.  Grief seized Arthur, and his chest tightened as a strangled noise left him.  Sole’s face was impassive; peaceful – she could’ve been sleeping.  It was a face he had seen many times; a face he had kissed softly in the dead of night under the reigning moonlight, a face he had brushed his fingers over tenderly a million times before.  Her brow was lax, finally unburdened by the whims of the living, above the eyes he had seen; enraged, distraught, exuberant, even tender – when they looked at him.  Her lips were pale, void of the life that once filled her – lips he had kissed time and time again.  It occurred to him now, that he hadn’t realized the last time he kissed her, would be the last.  Really, there was no way to know, when would be the last time.  How many other people went through life, without knowing the last, was the last?  Did they ever find closure?  Could they?

Suddenly, Arthur’s face crumpled; it had been so abrupt, he hadn’t been prepared.  Already taken off guard, he did something he seldom did; he cried.  Arthur raised his trembling fingers to Sole’s face, gently stroking her cheeks, reveling in her soft, cold skin, knowing full well this would be the last time.  Arthur leaned over, pressing his lips gently to hers, missing the feeling of her pressing back instantly.

Arthur shook as he hovered over Sole, shaking from the force of his sobs, as they tore from him.  He raised a hand to his face, half-covering it in an attempt to smother some of his grief, the other hand lingering at Sole; unwilling to let go.  He could’ve been there for mere moments, or hours; it made no difference – he had been right, there was no way to be ready for this.  He sat, shaking under the weight of his grief, until Knight-Captain Cade retrieved him, and they wheeled Sole away.

-

Arthur looked over the compilation of technical documents, specially annotated by Proctor Quinlan; his forehead wrinkled as he concentrated.   _An anomaly of power flux in the navigational modulator_ …Beside him, a stack up to his shoulder awaited forebodingly.  Suddenly, a sharp rap at the door jerked him from his focused state, the heavy technical jargon slipping right through his fingers, as his head snapped up to look at the door of his private quarters.

“Come in.”

The heavy metal door swung open with a clang, revealing Knight Rhys; a sour look on his face, with his hand gripped firmly over the bicep of a woman with Sole’s face; a masque of astonishment, and hair that was sleek and dark brown – so similar to his own.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, “What do we have here?”

“She was caught shirking her duties, Elder Maxson.  I caught her sneaking one of Emmett’s…his fecal matter, into one of my boots, Sir.”

Rhys curled his lip, as Nerea donned a sheepish expression.  Arthur glowered at her.

“Is that so?”

“It is, Elder Maxson.  So I’ve brought her to you.”

Arthur cleared his throat, inwardly groaning.

“Thank you, Knight.  You’re dismissed.”

Rhys saluted, before turning on his heel, and leaving, letting the metal door swing shut behind him.  Once alone with his daughter, Arthur sighed heavily, putting his technical documents down.

“Is what Rhys said true, Initiate?” Arthur folded his arms.

Nerea rolled her eyes, “C’mon dad, it’s just us.  You can drop the whole ‘Elder’ shtick.”

Arthur pressed his mouth into a thin line, “I’d prefer it if we kept this professional,  _Initiate_.  Now please, answer the question honestly.”

“And I’d prefer it if Rhys took the giant stick out of his butt,” Nerea muttered, staring daggers at the door the Knight had just exited out of.

“Nerea – that’s enough.” Arthur said sharply, sighing tiredly, as he ran a hand through his hair.  “Just…why do you do this?”

“Do what?” Nerea shot back.

“Make things so…difficult?  All the Initiates have to do clean-up duty, I can’t show you favoritism because you’re my daughter.  This is –“

Nerea snorted loudly, cutting her father off.

“Right.  No favoritism.  God forbid you treat your daughter like family for once.”

“Nerea,” Arthur said firmly.

“Don’t you mean,  _Initiate_?” she asked scathingly.

“Nerea.” Arthur said again, “I’ve tried – _really tried_  – to be patient with you, but you just won’t listen.  I’m sending you to Paladin Danse; he’ll have you run some drills.  You can use the time you spend completing them to reflect on your behavior today.”

Arthur cleared his throat, picking up the documents once again.  Meanwhile, Nerea stared disbelievingly at her father.

“Oh, you’ve got to be _fucking_  kidding me.” She scoffed.

“Nerea, don’t use that lang-“

“No,  _you don’t_!” Nerea’s voice was shrill, her eyes horrified as she looked at Arthur, who had put the documents down again, his gaze now fixed on his daughter.  “You don’t get to just hand me off to a Paladin, because you don’t feel like dealing with me.  I’m your daughter.  You  _have_  to deal with me.”

Arthur sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, before turning to Nerea, his eyes sad and tired.

“I…is that what you think?” he asked quietly.  “That I cast you aside because I…don’t feel like seeing you?”

Nerea shrank back at the sudden meekness in her father’s voice.  She had never seen him like this; only the strong, commanding Elder, who had vanquished a Deathclaw, and led the East-Coast chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel.

“Well…don’t you?” Nerea squeaked.

“I…” Arthur rubbed at his face, fatigued again, before standing up, and stepping out from behind his desk.

“Nerea, I…”  Arthur hesitated.  “I don’t know what to do…about you,” He admitted awkwardly.  “You’re…an Initiate, but you’re also my daughter.  I’m out of my depth in one of those aspects, but combining the two?  I just…I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You…what?” Nerea asked, her eyes drawn up, perplexed.

“I…my parents weren’t super involved.  They handed me off to Sarah Lyons when I was younger than you; and I’ve been all Brotherhood ever since.” Arthur confessed, “Then, I met your mother and…” Arthur chuckled fondly as he reminisced, now lost in thought.

“She changed my life.  She made me see that there was more to life; and that’s when we started to build ours together.  When we found out we were having you?  I was ecstatic.” Arthur looked over to his daughter, his eyes more tender than she’d ever seen them.

He took a few steps towards her, reaching out, demonstratively.

“We talked about all sorts of things; what we’d name you – Nerea means ‘mine’ by the way.  Your mother chose it because she wanted it to serve as a reminder that no matter what, even if you did join the Brotherhood, first and foremost, you’d be ours; our daughter, before a soldier in our platoon.”

Nerea’s throat tightened at the revelation, as her father continued on.

“We spoke of how we’d raise you; you were to receive a proper, well-rounded education like your mother, along with a Brotherhood one, like me.  When she died…” Arthur frowned, “Well, let’s just say that, even if you didn’t receive the education she had hoped for, we’re lucky you’re so bright.  But I?  I’m still completely in the dark.  Your mother was wonderful with being tender, being loving – adoring you.  I?  I feel all those things, and can’t…”

Arthur’s brow crumpled again, his hands struggling to pantomime what he struggled to put into words, demonstrative in itself.

Nerea’s gaze softened.

“Dad…”

“No, listen, Nerea.  I love you – of course I love you, I’m just…bad at saying it.  I was with your mother too.  If only she were here…” Arthur shook his head, sighing softly.

“Dad,” Nerea said again, coming forward so that she could gently take on of her father’s hands in her own.  “I…maybe this is something we need to learn together?”  she suggested.

Arthur blinked at his daughter, his eyebrows raising, his eyes mournful.

“Really?”

“Sure,” Nerea offered a smile as an olive branch.  “I mean, we won’t get it over night, and it would be easier if mom were here to translate but…we should try – all the time.  And then, I think we’ll get better at it.”

A few moments of blissful quiet hung between father and daughter as they embraced the daunting nature of their relationship.  Arthur looked fully on Nerea now, her gaze for once, seeing him, and void of the gnarled, angry edge she usually carried with her.  Arthur smiled tentatively back.

“Sure we will.”


End file.
